


Death Comes Knocking...

by Never_Nock



Series: Radio Static [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: 1930s, Alastor The Radio Demon, Blood, Gen, Hazbin Hotel - Freeform, Hell, Holy moly here we go, Knives, Murder, My First AO3 Post, Serial Killer, Torture, Vivziepop, alastor is in hell for a reason, non Canon, third person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 19:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20317918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Never_Nock/pseuds/Never_Nock
Summary: Every demon knows his name down here.Buthowhe got here..?Nobody knew for certain.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a re-write of a very quickly written idea I did on my former Wattpad account. It delves into the death of Alastor, the infamous Radio Demon, and how he arrives in Hell!
> 
> I got this idea from Hazbin Hotel! A wonderful animation project created by the very talented artist and animator, Vivziepop!  
Hope you all enjoy!~

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sky was pitch black in Charleston. 

There was no moon to be seen to light up the world that night. It had been swallowed up by the inky black sea that covered the city, dotted with tiny white pinpricks of light that shimmered and dulled as clouds slowly slipped by. They were thin and dark, looking like sluggish black smoke billows as they winked out a few stars on their merry way across the sky. 

Though as dark as it was, the city below was buzzing with blinking lights and music that seemed to flow through the streets as easy as water in a riverbed.

Jazz! Swing! Blues! Ragtime!

It all seeped out through the doors and windows of nightclubs and bars throughout the city, alive with people dancing and singing the night away. It made its way out into the streets to the ears of passerby, making a few heads turn, a few laughs and smiles to cross faces, and a few to even join in on the beat. 

Men and women waiting for the late city bus. Their shoes tapping a dull beat into the wet cement, punctuated by the sound of rain pitter-pattering the nearby pavement, streets, and rooftops.

A child sitting in a cab with their parents, their legs swinging happily to the quick tempo, watching the rain leave long streaks on the window.

A young girl in a nearby apartment, humming the tune as she finished up her hair in the reflection of a dresser mirror, the rain drumming soothingly on the building's roof.

Charleston thrived when the sun went down. When the sweltering heat was cloaked by the cool, damp feeling of the night, that was the time to be in Charleston.

And in this darkness, there was another noise.

Choked out by the rustle and bustle of the city's music and traffic, but it was there.

In the homes of the delusioned, in back alleyways under thin plastic tarps, in basements, and on rooftops.  
Crackling and seething out from the speakers of radios across Charleston.

There was the voice of the radio host.

\---

No one knew where exactly the broadcast originated from.  
The radiotowers in the area had no idea that their airwaves were being tapped into by an unknown source. The station had flew completely under the radar of the company's overseers, and had claimed a spot on the dial all for itself.

The one behind all this..?

Again, no one knew for certain.  
Only that the man, whoever he was, had a following of listeners who would tune into his station every week. Many outsiders assumed it was just some sort of radio show, like "Little Orphan Annie".

However, the content of the broadcasts were far more darker and horrific than they could have possibly imagined.

The radio host was a murderer. Bent on broadcasting his killings as they happened, in real time. All for the sake of his listener's and his own dark pleasure.

And oh, he didn't let his presence go to waste.

No sir.

He only wished his broadcast was a bit easier for his listeners to find. He had to keep it well-hidden, after all. He didn't want to be discovered and his fun put to an end anytime soon!

\---

After months of tinkering and messing with the access box of a nearby radio tower, he had managed to make an almost invisible link to his downtown apartment dwelling. From there, he could broadcast whatever he wished.  
As long as he wasn't caught by the local Charleston police.

He doubted it would happen.  
He had been ever-so careful setting up this little past-time of his.

He had also managed to set up a station on the lisp of two others. Right between where one station began to fade out and another just started to tune in. Here, he was very difficult to find when one turned the dial. But for those who were aware of his presence on the radio, they knew just where to find him on the airwaves.

The only downside, he found out, was that he was very difficult to hear on the other end. He had *ahem* "borrowed" a high-quality microphone in an attempt to clear up his broadcasts, but to no avail.  
Nevertheless, his voice still continued to pop and crackle through speakers all over Charleston, brought to life by the wicked and twisted minds tuning in to listen to his dark, horrific monologues.

He had an audience, and he did his best to put on a bashing show for them!

\---

He was already on a high-count killing spree...

What was the harm in letting a few like-minded folks join in on the fun?

\---

His victims were mostly women.  
They were far easier to charm and lure back to his apartment than the block-headed drunk Southern men that wandered the streets at night.  
He remembered when he had first tried to take the life of a man. The bloke had been so drunk, he could barely walk straight.  
He thought he would be an easy victim. Just lead him into a back alley, conk him out with a brick or a bottle, and take him to the apartment in a cab.

"What've you got there, son?"

"Oh! This poor chap's gotten himself blackout drunk. Just taking the boy back to his flat!"

Put on a smile.  
Act like a concerned friend.  
Over and done with.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

He had managed to lure the drunk into an alley, promising more whiskey if he followed. Of course with his senses choked out and smothered by the alcohol, he had quickly obliged, and stumbled after him into the dark.

Unfortunately, the drunk's skull had been thicker than he had first thought, and a well-aimed bottle to the head did little to knock him out. The man shouted, and in blind surprise and rage he lunged forward to grab his overcoat.  
Quickly, he twisted out of the way and shoved the half-crazed drunkard.

Hard.

Hard enough to make him lose his balance and slam into the alleyway's solid brick wall, knocking him unconscious.

After that mishap, he turned tail and ran like hell. He hated running away from mistakes. If something didn't go as planned, he'd rather put a bullet in its head and brush it off of his trail.  
But he had been young, and inexperienced in the ways of killing.

That mistake could've cost him. He could've been caught in mere hours if he hadn't of gotten out of there as fast as he did. The tussel surely would've caught the attention of someone nearby...

From then on he'd told himself that he'd never leave a job unfinished...  
No more leaving behind failed attempts. Never again.

And so, he began targeting women.

They were gullible. Naive. Too easy to charm with a genuine smile and a gentlemanly hand. They always fell for him quite quickly. He did tend to overdo his act on most occasions, and would normally have a woman swooning over him after a few days of courting. He once did it in only a few hours at a local nightclub, but he stayed far away from those nowadays.

Too many eyes there.

He found it amusing that most of the time, his victims were the ones who brought up the idea of going back to his apartment. They being the ones to punch their own cards like that, completely unaware of what waited for them behind his door.

He'd bring them to his complex, all the while trying to remain gentlmanly and kind, even though thoughts of torture devices, knives, saws, and overall horrors were already coursing around in his head.  
Once he actually had them in his room though, it was over quite quickly. 

He'd knock them out.  
Tie them up in a chair in the back room.  
Gag them with a rag.

Switch on his microphone.

Adjust to the correct settings.

And then the show would begin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An uninvited guest ruins the fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two!!  
Hoping to churn out a third chapter afterwards to wrap this whole thing up c:

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"And that my dear listeners, concludes our weekly broadcasting! Many thanks for tuning in!  
And remember..."

"You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile!"

After cheerfully chiming his usual send-off, he reached over to the small speaker near the corner of his desk. Quickly, he flipped the small metal switch on the control panel with his thumb, smearing on a thin layer of blood in the process.  
A familiar tune began seething from the depths of the black speakers, playing out over the airwaves as his microphone picked it up.

_Hey, hobo man_

_Hey, dapper Dan_

_You've both got your style, but brother_

_You're never fully dressed_

_Without a smiiiiile!_

He grinned.

_Another successful broadcast!_

Careful not to make any noise and disturb the music, he manuevered around his microphone stand, which was currently propped up next to the speakers.

He always signed off with his signature tune. It was by far one of his favorite melodies, and he often played it over the speakers to better drown out the dreadful ruckus and noise his victims caused.  
Part of him wished he could just let them scream their little hearts out.

Oh, he _wanted_ to hear them.  
Those shrieks and moans of mind-numbing pain..?

His high.

It was like an addiction, though he hated admitting it to himself. He never wanted to be dependent on anything, but those sounds...  
He had trouble suppressing his need for it sometimes.

Once, it crossed his mind to have a custom record made for himself. So that he could play those blissful sounds over and over in his own home without the hassle of killing..

But he thought better.

Screaming would never go unnoticed in a small apartment complex. He'd be caught for certain, and he could kiss his little hobby goodbye. 

He glanced at his palms, his eyes catching the sight of blood staining his fingertips, still wet from tonight's killing. He smudged it between his fingers, feeling it start to go cold. He was a sucker for the stuff, but he hated leaving it around to dry.  
It was quite the pain to wash out of his clothes..

Humming along to his favorite tune as it merrily played on the speakers, he headed toward the washroom in the back of his apartment, nonchalantly passing by his victim who was long dead, still tied down to a chair by her bruised wrists.

The poor little lamb had struggled so hard to free herself from her bindings.  
Had screamed until her throat was raw.

Had passed out from shock too many times to count..

\---

He had found her inside an antique shop on Main. 

She was young, around her early to middle 20's, and alarmingly pretty. Her face had been soft and pale, with no hint of blemishes anywhere. Her hair was long and dark, stopping short just around her shoulder blades.  
She looked like an ideal woman, and it genuinely surprised him that he didn't see any men trailing after her..

What got his attention though, was her eyes.

They were a deep, hazel brown.  
Looking for all the world like a doe's.

The image stuck with him as he followed her for a few hours, watching her go about her daily, ordinary life.

Stopping by the post office.  
Taking a quick stop at a bench in the park.  
Buying a few groceries at the corner-store.

When finally, he decided to intervene.

She had been very friendly when meeting him, allowing him to walk with her a short while on her way home. They chatted about small things, mostly about the daily happenings around Charleston.  
At one point he mentioned how he had noticed her in the antique store earlier on, and that he himself, had a growing collection of his own antiques at home.

And then after a brief chat, he bid her good-day, and strolled along the sidewalk, out of her sight.  
Of course, he followed her home, noting where she lived, and how close she was to his own apartment.

After that, it was only a matter of time.

\---

He would frequently "bump into" her every few days at the antique shop, saying hello and genuinely getting along "Just swell!"  
Of course, he kept up his usual act. 

Complimenting her on her features.

Offering help if she ever needed it.

Making her laugh with his quick wit and remarks.

Slowly lowering her defenses...

And after about a week of this, his victim surprised him yet again.

"I do remember you sayin' something about an antique collection, is that right..?"

From there, she accepted his invitation, much to his internal twisted delight, and she arrived at his door only two days later.

And oh, she was absolutely _marvelous_!  
Everything he'd thought she'd be!

\---

She was unrecognizable now.

Her face had been mangled beyond recognition by him and his sharp tools.  
Thin streaks of dried blood and tears stained whatever skin she had left, which wasn't much.  
He had carved into her with a steak knife, his usual weapon of choice. She had been breathing, heart still pumping blood a million miles an hour through her terrified body when he had started to cut into her...

He always took his time with these...He wanted to savor it as long as possible. Hoping it was enough to last him another week before he started craving again.

And oh, how she'd screamed!

He was almost afraid the gag wouldn't be enough to muffle her cries, she was so loud! He had to clamp his hand over her mouth, much as he'd hated to.

Bless her tired little soul, she was too loud to keep torturing this way.

As much as he'd wanted to drag this on, he'd have to cut this broadcasting short, or risk getting caught.

He'd simply sliced her throat, watching as her eyes grew crazed and panicked, realizing she was suffocating.  
He watched those eyes...

_Doe-eyes..._  
He thought to himself, as he observed the life drain from her body.  
He drank it in, like a fine wine. The last moments in life were always interesting to watch, and he reveled in the quiet acceptance he always saw in his victims as their eyes glazed over.

It really was like a drug.  
A toxin in his bloodstream.

\---

He finished scrubbing away the last of the crimson stains, watching the remains of the blood flow down the drain of his porcelain sink. He sighed, shutting off the tap and listening to the rain patter against the washroom window.  
He could see the murky, blurred outlines of Charleston from his apartment. His room was on the fifth floor of a six-story building, so he got quite the view with his room.

The rain dribbled down the sides of the glass, morphing the lights of the streetlamps on the walkways below. He could very faintly see the dark silhouettes of people making their nighty rounds on the town, some running to escape the rain, others just taking their time, protected by the slick umbrellas they clutched in their hands.

Somewhere down there, was another victim just waiting to catch his eye. Wandering about their ordinary, boring lives, day after day.  
He was glad he wasn't like them. To be normal and bland was unimaginable for him.

Life was to be lived with the rush of adrenaline! The thrill of the chase! Those were things to live for!

Sometimes he grew to pity them...  
Even began to believe he was _saving_ them from the dull lives they lived.

He let out a small chuckle.  
Just thinking about this was already making him eager for next week's kill broadcasting.

"Why do good things have to be over so quickly.." he mused, drying his hands and returning to his recording studio to clean up the result of that night...

But not to the radio host's knowing...There was a figure looking up at his apartment window from the darkness of the street.  
Their face was shrouded in black, shaded over by the shadow cast by the brim of their cap. Their overcoat was tightly buttoned, in an attempt to keep out the onslaught of water all around them.  
Small droplets of water dripped off of the brim of their hat, plopping down to join the collected rainwater at the figure's boots.

They watched quietly, observing the radio host spend a short glance out the window at the street below, then turn and dissappear into the delves of his apartment.

Drawing in a breath, they clutched the cold handle of the pistol concealed in their coat pocket.

He had finally tracked him down..  
He was certain it was him.  
The location matched up perfectly to the the hidden broadcast link that had been discovered back at the radio station headquarters. It had taken them literal _years_ to sift through the thousands of stations..

_Years._

And now, it all came down to this...

He began walking towards the apartment complex, his boots sending up small splatters of rainwater with each step.

\---

He sighed, the door to his apartment clicking shut behind him. He reached up and slotted the thin bar-lock with a faint _"clink"_ as he always did.

He brushed off his hands, walking back to the recording studio to do one final once-over.

He could never be too careful!

He was playing a ridiculously fun game, but also a risky one at that. One mistake, and he could be put behind bars, or worse...

He hummed as he worked, a new tune filling the rooms of his apartment through his speakers:

_We're all alone,_

_No chaperon_

_Can get our number,_

_The world's in slumber,_

_Let's misbehave!_

_There's something wild_

_About you, child,_

_That's so contagious,_

_Let's be outrageous,_

_Let's misbehave!_

He glanced at the floor as he went, making sure there were no smears or traces of a scuffle.  
He checked the chair, making sure it was still stable enough for another round of struggling and thrashing.  
He went over the walls and floor with a cleaning rag, knowing how far blood could spatter in some instances.

He went over his desk and-

Aha! Missed a spot!

He reached over to clean the dried blood on the metal switch on his speaker's control panel. He must've forgotten about-

_knock knock_

He froze in his tracks.  
Turned towards the door.

The music continued to play out of the speakers.

It was far too late in the night for anyone to be visiting him at this hour..

His immediate thought was the Charleston police.

He blinked, trying to reason with himself.

He was jumping to conclusions too quickly.

He had been careful.  
What reason would they have to show up at his door?

It could be the police, or it could be his neighbors asking him to turn the music down, as they always did.  
It could be the cleaning lady from the first floor, wondering if he'd seen her new cleaning supplies lately..?  
It could-

_ Knock. Knock._

Short. Deliberate.

It was definitely the police...

Thank goodness he had locked the door..  
Hopefully that might buy him enough time to maybe scale down the fire escape or something, and drop down to the streets below.

What in the world could have led them here?!

He had been so painstakingly careful to cover up his tracks..

Thoughts of an escape plan tried asserting themselves in his brain.

He didn't have any firearms in the apartment.  
Loud, messy weapons. He hated guns with a passion.

There was no use trying to talk his way out of this one..  
No point in trying to overpower a police officer either.

He stole a quick glance to the sliver of window he could see in the washroom.  
He made up his mind.

And then the door was kicked open.

Small splinters of wood exploded out from where the door had tried vainly to stay connected to the lock, and he jumped in shock, preparing to book it into the washroom.

And then a silver pistol was being aimed squarely at his chest.

...

_Dammit..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One life ends.  
Another begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one!!! :D
> 
> Thank you for reading this bloody mess of a story! I've had this idea for quite a while now and I'm so glad I am finally able to share it!
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts on the story, as I am still growing and learning as a writer. Anything is greatly appreciated!
> 
> Thanks for reading!~

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

_If you'd be just so sweet_

_And only meet_

_Your fate, dear,_

_`Twould be the great_

_Event of nineteen twenty eight,_

_Dear!~_

Ohhh, what a mess he was in...

Here he was, staring down the barrel of a silver Colt pistol, half ready to take his chances and jump out of his fifth floor apartment window.

He didn't recognize the figure holding the gun. He couldn't see his damned face, anyways.

A rugged fedora topped their head, a few water droplets dripping from the brim and splatting onto the worn wooden floor of the room.  
The shadow cast by the brim concealed the features of their face...

The only thing he _could_ see was the man's eyes...  
Sickly green..  
Like the color of a lime.

But they were cold, and sharp.  
Filled to the brim with hate and rage...

They were wearing a dark grey overcoat, with one hand casually in their pocket, and the other firmly holding the polished Colt with a steady hand.

The radio host had only around a second to take this in, before the brute pulled the bloody trigger.

_BLAM!_

The shot rang out, loud as thunder.

The bullet flew.

And it hit its mark.

Almost threw him to the wall when it blasted a gnarled hole straight through his chest.

\---

It was funny...

Even though he was already on the way to Death's door, the first thing he noticed was that the music had changed.

It spewed out of the speakers, warped and choppy. The radio blew sparks and sputtered.  
It let out one last mournful note before it sputtered and died in another short array of sparks.

Poor thing.  
He'd join it in a few minutes.

The bullet had gone clean through him, busting the radio on the desk and spraying a healthy splatter of blood across anything behind him.

He dropped his head, looking at where the bullet had torn through his suit, his skin, his muscle, bone.  
He had seen more than enough gore in his life, but he'd never expected to be looking down at his own flesh and muscle tissue.

He watched in mild curiosity as his suit began to change color before his eyes.  
Red bloomed from beneath his clothes, soaking through and staining the fabric a dull crimson.

He gave a weak laugh, and it _hurt_.... __

He watched it spread, noticing the blood had even sprayed onto the monocle he kept in his chest pocket. The droplets looking like little red spheres covering the glassy surface.

He tore his gaze upwards.  
His head felt like a paperweight...

He wanted to get a _really_ good look at the man he was going to haunt for the rest of his sorry life.

But the doorway was empty.

Faintly, he could hear the hurried footsteps of someone running downstairs, their boots clunking on every step, growing quieter by the second.

_So..._

_A hit and run, then?_

He stumbled, his knees beginning to feel like they weighed a hundred pounds each. Quickly, he flailed out his arms and gripped his microphone stand in an attempt to support himself, but it toppled over, the wind screen smashing open in the process. It's innards spilled across the floor, bolts rolling and wires splitting and snapping.

He had crashed to his knees, his back leaning against the wall.

He could hear his own breathing, his own heartbeat.  
Growing more shallow and ragged with each exhale.

For some reason, the pain decided that now was the best time to overwhelm his senses.  
He'd felt plenty of pain in his life...but nothing like this.  
It was white hot, searing pain that made him feel like his insides were on fire. Like someone had dropped a match in his chest.

Slowly, he slid to the floor. The muscles in his back and chest that were keeping him upright were starting to fail him. Leaving a smeared trail of red across the wall, he slowly met with his microphone on the ground.

So, this was how he was going out?  
This was how his curtains were closing?

Shot at point-blank by a man he didn't know.  
Bleeding out on the floor of his recording studio.

Of all the murders he'd gone through...  
Of all the times he'd managed to slip between the cop's fingers...

_This?_

He sputtered up a cough, along with a few droplets of blood as well. It sprayed over what was left of his beloved microphone, the metal lining being dotted with spots of crimson.

He never believed in destiny....let alone fate.  
But if this was what snuffed out his candle...

_Then so be it....._

\---

From where he was on the ground, he could see most of the layout of his apartment..  
Just around the corner of the studio's entrance, he could see the corner wall of his study, where he would always prop up a good book on the days he had nothing better to do.

On the other side, he could see the closed door of his bedroom where he slept soundly every night.  
And just beyond that, down a short hallway, was his ridiculously small kitchen where he would brew his coffee, and smoke with the window latched open.

In the corner of his vision, he could see his blood begin to pool and slowly creep across the floor.

Figures...

He spent so much time cleaning this room. Making sure there was never a trace of blood left over from his murders.

And now it was coated with only his own.

He wanted to laugh at the thought, but he soon realized he didn't have the strength..

He felt so tired...  
His limbs felt so heavy as he slowly lost the ability to feel the floor beneath him.

Dark clouds began to creep in around the edges of his vision, swallowing him up in their comforting blackness.  
He felt his lungs stir and rasp, breathing out his last breath like he was being constricted by a spring.

The searing pain in his chest ebbed away to a piercing chill, and then faded to a numbing cold.  
His fingers twitched, still wrapped around the base of his microphone stand as they went numb.

And then nothing.

And that's all there was for a while...

...

And then,

Quite suddenly...

_He was falling_

\---

Exactly _where_ he was falling, he hadn't the slightest idea.  
Wasn't he supposed to be dead?  
Why was he just...careening into the black abyss he currently found himself in?

He'd always assumed death would be like being in an eternal sleep... 

_So what in the name of Sam's Hill was going on?_

Was this purgatory, then? 

He didn't feel the wind whipping at his hair or his clothes like he'd expected, but he _did_ feel the familiar sensation of his stomach dropping.

His mind whirled with possibilities.  
Maybe he _was_ alive? Maybe this was what it was like being in a coma or something.  
Perhaps someone had come down to his apartment to investigate the gunshot that had wracked through the complex, and had found him bleeding out.  
Was he in a hospital..?

God, he hoped not..

Being in a hospital meant they'd find out who he was.  
Which meant _really_ bad news for him.

He wasn't able to process his next thought, though...

Because suddenly, it felt like he had fallen into a pit of flames.

He screamed, as the pain ripped into him.  
It literally felt like something was burrowing into him, through his skin, out the other end, and back again. Over and over. Like he was being sown into by a searing hot needle.

He was producing ungodly shrieks and sounds he didn't even know he was capable of making.  
His body contorted unnaturally, snapping and twisting in ways that would've split his spine.

He was changing. He could feel it himself, barely. Beneath all the blinding pain that was swarming his senses, something was happening to his body.  
He felt like he was..

_Stretching..?_

Like he was strapped down to one of those ancient medieval torture devices.

And something else.

_His mouth._  
It hurt like literal hell.

It felt like he had tried to bite down onto a piece of iron. Or like he had been punched in the jaw.

The pain was the greatest in his teeth, although he wasn't sure what was happening there.

And then just when he felt like the unbearable pain was dying down a bit, he felt two sharp..._somethings_...peirce out from his skull.  
It felt like he just had two bullet holes blasted into his cranium, and he shrieked in agonizing pain.

How was he surviving through all of this?  
It had to be imaginary...  
There was no way he could be put down by a bullet, but still survive through _this_.

And then suddenly, like somebody flipped a switch...

It all stopped.

He stopped hurting, and he stopped falling.

Because his back had abruptly hit something solid and flat.

\---

He didn't know how long he laid there.

It could have been hours, or days.  
He didn't even know if time existed wherever he was.  
But eventually, he opened his eyes.

And he was glad that red was his favorite color...

It was all he could see at the moment.  
Just a dull crimson.  
Everywhere.

The expanse of red was broken up every so often by dark, wispy billows that moved slowly across the sky.

_Were those clouds..?_  
_And...trees?_

They were thin and black, spindly things that reached their branches out in the corners of his vision.

He was outside?  
During, what looked like a nature phenomenon.

Blood Moon, maybe? Or some other sort of eclipse?

The apocalypse, perhaps?

He needed to see for himself..

\---

Slowly, he pushed himself upwards, using his elbows for support.  
From what he could comprehend, he seemed to be in a forest. It wasn't one he was familiar with, but it appeared to be close to a city..?

Between the trees he could very clearly see the flashing lights of buildings, shops, billboards and the like. From his seat on the ground, it didn't look like anywhere he was familiar with.  
It wasn't Charleston. That much he was certain.

Wait.

_Why wasn't he in excruciating pain anymore..?_

His eyes wandered down to his chest, where his gunshot wound had surprisingly, all but dissappeared. There was no trace of a bullet hole entryway anywhere, and no bloo-

He blinked, his brain doing a double-take.

_What had happened to his clothes?_

Well, he was wearing the same outfit, but it was now the deep crimson color that had been staining his clothes when he had been shot. And it had nicely stitched itself back together where it had been torn by the bullet, with not even as much as a stray thread out of place.

And from this vantage point, he could see that not only his clothes, but his physical _body_ had changed as well!

He was taller....Far taller than he had been before.  
At least, his feet seemed to be farther away than he remembered.  
His arms too, had lengthened significantly.

And-  
His _hands..._

Well, he considered them more like _claws_ now.  
His fingernails had been replaced with blood-red claws, which were sharp to the touch, and blended seamlessly with the black finger gloves he found himself wearing.

His shoes, pants....everything had changed.  
Not that he was complaining though. He wasn't wearing his bloodied and tattered outfit at least, so that was a plus.

\---

And now to address the lingering sensation he felt on his face...  
Realizing there wasn't anything around to allow him to look at himself, an idea pinged itself into his head.

He checked his chest pocket, and low-and-behold, there it was! His monacle was exactly where he had left it.  
Except, interestingly enough, it had changed as well...

Instead of being crystal clear, the glass had been stained red. Just like the rest of his clothes...  


He slipped it out of the small pocket, and held it up in front of his face to see his reflection....

....and almost dropped the monocle after seeing what was staring back at him.

He was _smiling..._

An impossibly wide, toothy grin crossed his face, quite literally from ear to ear.  
His teeth, no longer the perfectly straight, white teeth he was so used to seeing. Instead they had been stained to a dull yellow...and they were _sharp!_

Each tooth fitting together perfectly like a zig-zag puzzle.  


It wasn't as if he was happy..  
And it wasn't like he was being _forced_ to smile..

It was just...his face.  
Even though his smile looked like it should be breaking his jaw by how far the corners of his mouth turned up, it caused him no pain at all.

Slowly, he reached up and brushed his free hand across his mouth, feeling the sharpness of his new teeth. His claws making a dull scraping sound as they were drawn across his smile.

Suddenly, he stopped.

From this angle, he could see the top of his head through the reflection of his monocle, and boy, how much that had changed too!  
His short hair was no longer the dark brown that he had grown up with. Instead, it was now a ridiculously bright red, which became soot black as it reached his chin.

Also, on either side of his head, his hair had grown into two long tufts. It was a bit jarring at first, realizing that he could actually _move_ these tufts as if they were ears, and they flicked and twitched every so often as they picked up the sounds of the bustling city in the distance.

And that wasn't the only thing he noticed either...

In between these tufts, he noticed two small..  
Well, at first he thought they were horns, but upon closer inspection with his hands, he discovered that they were, in fact, _antlers_.  
They were small, with only two prongs, and black as pitch.__

_ __ _

Was that what that terrible pain in his head was when he first arrived here..?

He had felt them pierce through his skull...  
And his teeth growing out.  
And his body lengthening.

But why...?

What was this place and why was he here?

He turned his head towards the city, distinctly hearing the sounds of automobiles and music.

Perhaps he could get answers from there..

\---

Wobbling slightly, he had managed to get himself into a standing position.  
He wasn't used to this new height, and he felt for all the world like a newborn fawn trying out its new legs. The added weight on his head didn't help either, and he stabilized himself by leaning against a nearby tree.

He was about to take his next step towards the city, when something red caught his attention from the corner of his eye.

Was that....

Was that what he thought it was...?

_His microphone._

It was leaning up against a tree, only about ten feet away, as if someone had left it there for him.  
Thankful to see something he recognized, he shakily made his way over, eager to be reunited with his favorite possession.

However upon getting within reaching distance, he hesitated.  
It was his microphone, and not not unlike him, it had also gone through some very noticable changes.  
Where the wind screen had been smashed, it was now replaced with a large red, unblinking eye. 

It had a...._presence..._

He felt it buzzing with energy upon gripping its thin metal stand. 

It was aware... 

It knew what he was.  
What he had been. 

Of all the crimes he had committed.  
Of all the women and children he had mercilessly slaughtered in his own home.  
Of the hundreds of dark monologues he had spewed out over his broadcasts. 

_It knew._

And it was there to witness whatever dark acts he still had yet to perform.

\---

With his microphone back in his possession, he was now able to move about much more steadily than before. 

With a bit more confidence, he began walking towards the commotion, slipping seamlessly in between the trees as he went on his way.

Before long, he was just on the outskirts of the forest, and he could very clearly see the city now.

It was probably the biggest expanse of buildings he had ever seen. 

It was ridiculous how far the city stretched.

It went on for miles. 

Tall buildings and complexes crowded the space, hardly leaving room for the smaller structures, roads, and pathways in between.  
From what he could see, he noticed with mild disgust...was that most of the buildings were clubs.

Strip clubs, to be precise.

He also was aware of billboards and advertisements that boasted drug sellouts, adult films, casinos, bars, and overall....things he simply found distasteful.

And then...  
His question was answered by another billboard.

It was much bigger than the other advertisements, and towered over the other buildings. It was clearly the tallest structure in the city.

In bright, flashy letters, it read:

_Welcome To Hell!_  
_Population: A Fuck-ton_

Well.

So that's where he was.

\---

A part of him wasn't that surprised...  
He never in a million years believed he'd go to Heaven when he died. Not with all the terrible things he had chalked up to in his life. He'd known that if Heaven and Hell were real, he'd end up in the firey pits instead of at the golden gates of Heaven.

But he'd never expected the damn place to actually _exist!_

He'd always thought of Hell as a flaming madhouse. Somewhere where tortured souls went to be punished for their sins.

To be stabbed and prodded by pitchfork-holding devils and imps. Where flames licked at your heels and you were forced to live out the rest of eternity in pain and suffering.

Not some shitty, run-down city.

"...Swell..."

....

That was new.

His voice had changed...which he certainly hadn't expected.  
It was still his voice, but it had _sounded_ different. As if it was being broadcasted through his radio back in his apartment.  


He cleared his throat.

"Hello.."  
He said, to no one in particular.

It did sound nearly _identical_ to what his listeners would've heard coming through their radio's speakers.

He grinned and coughed into his fist, wanting to experiment with his new voice.

"Testing! Testing! Thank you for tuning in! This is Al-"

Wait...  
Hold on.

What was he about to say?  
Alastor?

Wait why-

_Why couldn't he remember his name?_

Every time he tried to bring it up in his mind, that word.  
That _name._

It just plastered over everything. 

_Alastor._

He wracked his brain, trying vainly to remember.

_Alastor..._

That name replaced any memory he might have left.  
Why was it so persistent..?

He could clearly remember most things before he died..  
He remembered getting shot, and he could recall quite a few things about his life that he had known for years.

So why for the life of him, couldn't he remember his own name..?

He came to the conclusion that it had to be because of this place. It had altered his body after all. Who's to say it couldn't have messed with his mind as well?

...Besides...

It _did_ have a nice ring to it...he had to admit.

And he much preferred this name to his previous, birth-given one.

\---

He stood there a few moments, processing.

He was dead.  
And he was in Hell.

He had transformed into what he could only assume was a demon, and had forgotten his name.

Things were looking up, as far as he was concerned.

\---

As he stood there contemplating, he began to notice the figures walking around the city, and his smile widened.  


Little people.

Little people for him to play with...

So, he was a murderer in his past life.  
Who said he couldn't be one now?

Some of the figures were humanoid like him, who still retained most of their former features.

Others were full-out creatures and monsters.

But what was that to the likes of him?

You didn't have to look like a monster to be one, in his case.

He wondered, if he was in fact in Hell, did that mean he was surrounded by murderers, just like him..?

The thought of meeting the infamous Jack the Ripper crossed his mind...Surely he was down here somewhere!

Rapists, theives, murderers....thats all he would meet down here.  
He didn't mind the competition.

\---

Even though he had physically changed....he was still the same on the inside.  
He still felt the familiar drive to kill....

But there was something underneath all that.  
Something amplifying his need for death and bloodshed...

It felt familiar, but on an entirely different level.

It was the feeling he got whenever he successfully managed to lure someone into his apartment.  
The feeling of holding a knife up against a young girl's throat.  
The feeling of watching the life drain out of panic-crazed eyes.

It was _power._

But not the likes he had felt before.

He wasn't entirely sure what was coursing through his veins, but for once he knew that it wasn't blood.  
It was something far more darker and demonic than he could imagine.

It wafted off of him like smoke as he began to step out from the forest, and headed down the hill towards the edge of the city.

His steps were confident and sure as he walked. He didn't know what this life had in store for him, or where he'd end up.

But he knew that as long as he felt that drive.  
That surge of dark power he felt flowing through him.  
Whatever it was.

Whatever it led to.

_He thought it suited him just fine._


End file.
